Ragnarök
by Tall Caddell
Summary: After EWII, Gallia's success spurs rebelions in both Empire and Federation, bringing about two new nations,Fhirald now liberated, and Hafnia, a Gallian sister nation. But when the Empire returns,loyalty will be tested, allys questioned,so begins Ragnarok.
1. Prelude to War Optional

Prelude to War (Optional)

In the year of 1935, during the Second European War, the Principality of Gallia, neutral in the conflict between the two superpowers, The Atlantic Federation, a coalition of loosely aligned democracies, and the Imperial Alliance, an Autocratic hierarchy of Eastern Europa, was invaded by Imperial forces due to its excessive stores of ragnite. Ragnite, a substance with a lapis lazuli hue, is used in everything, from medical treatment to fuel, explosives to alloy. This economic lifeblood was a decisive advantage, with Gallia's vast stores containing the possibility to tip the scales in the war raging around the country.

Within a year, many costly defeats became from the professional army, headed by the foolish leadership of Royal General Georg von Damon. The tide was turned by the more spirited Militia forces; in particular the Third Militia Regiment preformed outstandingly, with a folklore focal point, the members of Squad Seven.

The exploits of Squad Seven led to the expulsion of the Empire from Gallia, but Europan War II was not over, and as the stories of Gallia's willpower spread abroad, rebellions in both the Atlantic Federation and the Empire rose in frequency. By late 1939, these rebellions berthed two nations, both struggling for independence. The nation of Fhirald, absorbed by the Empire in EW I, had gained independence in a bloody and violent struggle, and is still fighting off the empire, awaiting the arrival of Federation troops to relieve the pressure on their borders. The second nation, Hafnia, shares a small south-west border with Gallia, and, being recent enemies of the Empire, developed a tight diplomatic bond, under the leadership of Princess Cordeilia, and democratically elected Lord Ethos, whose family name became the head of the forming constitutional monarchy. A second principality by the sea, similar geographically to Gallia, it was not long before vast ragnite veins were found in the mountains forming the young border in between Hafnia and the Empire. As a sister nation, Hafnia and Gallia shared much in technology and economic support, and with professional Gallian contractors it was not long before Hafnia's ragnite output was almost equal to Gallia's. The economic success of Hafnia jump started their infrastructure, and as the private Gallian industries profited from their investments, the two nations gradually bonded tighter together.

Hafnia knew that as a small, wealthy principality, it was a vulnerable target, much akin to Gallia in the Second Europan War. In this knowledge, they adopted the Gallian system of neutrality and fierce defense, with academies offering military training in doctrines borrowed from the Gallians. One very successful professor, at the Royal Academy of Military Strategy, affectionately known as RAMS Academy, was Professor Matthew Heinz Gerald, a master in analyzing the offensive and defensive sides of a conflict. This "Battering Ram" developed Hafnia's National Armory, Gerald Arms. Given his education in defensive warfare and his home in a small, wealthy principality, he gradually specialized in mainly defensive weapons, including rifles rivaling the Gallian Brondel **A** and** S **series. He also developed several machine guns, designed for mobility and heavy fire power. His new guns rendered the near-abolition of heavy gatlings, now mainly used in bunkers, or on heavy weight tanks, with his creations making the Hafnian Gunner Corps the envy of Europa. The advancements in military technology, and the strong bond with the Gallians, led to a relatively secure status for Hafnia.

The nation of Fhirald, under superior leadership of a small, elite armored force, had led to such staggering losses that the Empire submitted, mainly to avoid raids on the Empire proper while the war with the Federation was under way. Fhirald immediately set up a rigorous training program, involving the studies of military history and the tactics used by both tacticians of the now infamous Gunther family. In particular importance to the martial state was the Fhirald Royal Armored division; Under the command of former Drei Stern commander Radi Jaeger, who's history of success and his engagements with Lieutenant Welkin Gunther of the 7th Squad, 3rd Militia, gave him supreme tactical experience that proved invaluable to Fhirald in the conflicts sure to come.

Trade agreements and mutual understanding led to strong exports by Gerald Armories to Fhirald. Hafnia, now profiting profusely, was still under internal strain, and as Empire loyalist raid infrastructure, a Militia force of their own, the Freikorps, was required to keep the peace until a professional military has been trained. Under the financial wing of Professor Gerald, the "Battering Rams" are on the forefront, as 1st Regimental Militia, men of the Free Corps.


	2. Chapter 1: Rangers Lead the Way

Chapter I: Rangers Lead the Way

"HEY! SAM!" Militia Sergeant Samuel Pike turned to see his friend, Corporal Hans Volden running towards him, a stack of papers in hand.

"Captain Margot has requested your attendance in the second half's Armor Training. Eighth Squad needs an armored attachment, and you fit the bill." Hans exclaimed proudly, handing Sam the sheaf of papers, billowing beyond salvation with forms and official papers.

Sam froze, his dreams of a Dubium Light Tank swimming through his head. "You're joking! How'd you get a green like me clearance for training?" Sam asked, still struggling to keep the papers from exploding across RAMS Academy's courtyard.

"You know how it is, a name here, a nod there, and a small white lie made you the ideal candidate." Hans replied. "As far as she knows, you have ragnite alloy in your blood stream."

This part was questionable to Hans himself actually. Sam's love for mechanics was a well known trait about him. He had enlisted in the Hafnian Engineer Corps for the chance to work on one, and he'd seen his fair share of heavy armor in the process. In fact, word across the Academy had it that he had "stumbled" upon an experimental line of tanks, made entirely on Hafnian designs. Other rumors had it that the design was the joint work of Brondel and Gerald, with notes brought in from the works of Dr. Theimer on the famed Edelweiss.

Sam was slightly flustered, but quick to reply none the less, "So, you're saying I'm actually getting Tank training in my last semester? Hell Hans, once the year is done, we get shipped off to the Militia camps. HOW am I going to be qualified for Armor duty in one semester?"

Hans was slightly puzzled by this question. "You're not," he replied. "You're taking a semester long course here, and then you'll finish actual training at Militia camp Eight. My extensive history as a buddy in arms means I'll be going with you." He added with a devilish smile.

The conversation was clearly done though, the sky was growing darker, and Hans had already left for his dorm, determined to get there before lights out. As Corporal Pike walked off towards his dorm room, he thought privately. "The Eighth," Sam thought to himself. "Weren't they a Ranger unit? Why does a Ranger squad need a tank?" Sam pondered privately. The Rangers were the eyes and ears of Hafnia, and in some cases, Gallia. Unlike their military counterparts, clad in the National Green and Gold, 'bright and bold,' the Militias, out of utility and expense, used an olive drab in their standard uniform, but Rangers were an extreme. A random pattern of shades of light and dark green, known as 'camouflage', was special in that it was supposed to make its wearer invisible. A strange concept and one that sounded too technical for Militia funding. More interesting stories of disguising themselves as bushes was undoubtedly a tall tale, but apparently stranger things have happened before in the Ranger Corps. The whole purpose of a ranger unit was to move in quickly and quietly, and to strike with precision when required. A fifty-ton tank just didn't sound like something rangers would need. At any rate, the rangers were supposed to be the best of the best, both in training and equipment, and with the Eighth under the aid of RAMS' accord with Dr. Gerald, it should prove interesting as to the armament of Sam's future squad.

"Sam?"

The Sergeant nearly collapsed at the sudden inquiry. Furious with embarrassment, Sam wheeled around to find PFC. Sarah Mashers, an innocent look on her face, her hand still raised from tapping his shoulder. Flustered, Sam did his best to hold his venting and regain his composure, Sarah blushing openly at her intrusion on his thought.

"I-I'm sorry if I startled you Sam. I'll ask later," she stuttered.

"Whoa, hold up Sarah, it's fine. I was just thinking about something Hans told me earlier. What's on your mind?"

At this, Sarah backed off a slight bit. She had always been shy, and her looks didn't help her either. At five foot four, with blue-green eyes and short blonde hair, she had always been the cute one of the class, and it was every boy's goal in the Academy to successfully take her on a date. Unfortunately, her thoughts were always private, and the constant stream of request led her to an issue with conversation with academy boys, accented occasionally by a slight stutter.

"I heard about how you and Hans were moving to Squad Eight. I wanted to make sure it was true. I also wanted to congratulate you in your role as a tank crewman. I knew you'd get there," she added happily, "You were set on it so much. As far as I can tell, I'm moving to Squad Ten as a support trooper," she replied. That was a turn of luck for her. Squad Ten was generally a support unit, the "Master Rear" of the First Regiment. Her shy demeanor would have likely been a liability for her on the field, and she was also gifted in support roles. Mainly medical, she had volunteered several times in the Academy's infirmary, but she was a skilled mechanic as well.

"Well then Corpsman Mashers, I trust that when my Dubium inevitably explodes, I can count on you to treat my burns," Sam answered, hoping to break this freeze with a light hearted joke. Unfortunately, wide-eyed and blushing, Sarah took the comment as an arrangement. Her face was already a cherry red, and Sam grouped for a way to recover. "T-That is…, I mean…,"

Her face was gradually moving to a violet-purple color.

"W-What I meant was, I'm glad to know I'll have someone of your skill to look after us, you know, in case someone gets hurt." She brightened up at this. Few things made Sarah Masher happier than helping people, and to do so for a friend was never an opportunity lost to her.

"Oh, all right then. I'll work hard, so I won't ever fail," she blurted aloud, a small sense of pride as she spoke shined through, then, smiling, she turned and made her way to the girl's dorm rooms.

"That could have been ugly," Sam thought privately. As he walked towards his room, Thoughts of the various friends he would be leaving behind during his service in Squad Eight floated around. There was plenty of people at the academy, but in particular were, of course Hans and Sarah, as well as the persevering Darcsen shock trooper Alexi Moss, tall and strong Isaac Maul, his dark skin and short hair an uncommon trait to people in this area of Europa, making him "foreign," and, when combined with his strength and strong sense of duty, made him a desirable character among the female cadets. There was also Martha Summers, her long legs and vast stores of energy making her a sure fire scout, along with Stephanie Lodgers, the solitary sniper who spends most of her time creeping about the forest and proving or improving her skill with the Gerald rifles in general, with accuracy to match one of the higher listings of the **S**- series rifles. Also in the class was Nicholas Holdings. A professional soldier, Nick has yet to receive his set skill by the self appointed jury of Class E, given that he excelled in all roles. He manages to snipe with the Gallian Mags series, yet can survive in close quarters with a bulky Brondel **X** rifle. No one was really sure where Nick was going to be assigned, but occasionally, some of the Academy Alumni came back with news from the front or the upper workings of command, and a more recent visit led to the unveiling of the "Combat Specialist," which was, in any case, the lack of a specific role over all, but a versatility able for only gifted troops of the front line. It was late when Sam reached his dorm, just ten minutes before Lights-Out. Cody York was sitting on his bunk, reading a blue book with golden lacings.

"What's with the book? Shouldn't you be polishing your machine gun?" Sam inquired, referencing a devotion uncommon in militiamen between Cody and his Hurricane A-1 Gallian Machine gun.

"Come ON Sam; don't tell me you've never seen a copy of On the Gallian Front?"

"On the Gallian Front? Where exactly did you get a copy of that?" Sam responded. On the Gallian Front, a novel depicting the efforts of Gallia's Squad Seven, was a goldmine in military tactics, as well as an interesting novel about the squad's exploits.

"My cousin was a Seven, so she mailed me one when she found out I was a RAM," Cody replied, flicking through pages detailing the battle of Nagiar.

"Hmm, so Freesia was a Seven," Sam thought inwardly. "I wonder how she did, I mean, from what Cody told me, all she did was talk with… was it Cherry? I suppose being in a battle brings out the worst and best of us, but some people just don't belong in a fire fight." These thoughts swirled through Sam's head as he made his way to his bunk, where he undressed from his school uniform, a black blazer and pants with gold pinstripes and a green tie. A Hafnian flag, black and gold horizontal stripes with green vertical bars at each side, hung on the far wall, between the two bunks. With the day at an end, Cody and Sam exchanged stories, mainly about their assignment to the Eighth Rangers, of which Cody would also be folded into, before Lights-Out, and fell asleep.

Armor training was more difficult then what Sam thought it would have been. Of course, tanks usually had their own, designated engineers to accompany them, but nonetheless, Sam was required a knowledgeable understanding of the interworking of a modern day field tank. In truth, Sam enjoyed learning about how a tank functions, and with a few modifications with the training Dubium, under the watchful eye of the Academy's Engineer, managed to break the standard limits afforded to the tank. Needless to say, Sam shined all the more, and was further recommended for a combat station. Through determination, Sam managed to finish Armor Training I by the end of the semester, and was immediately taken by truck to Militia Camp Eight. Hugging the mountain chain, Camp Eight was described as a 'Soldier's Paradise," away from any visible border other than the hulking mountain itself, snowfalls common, but with an ocean breeze every few weeks to warm things up. Both Sam and Cody were wearing ranger uniforms, the mottled green fatigues blending in with the light forestry and the olive drab of the trucks and tents. Cody made his way to the ranger command tent, Hurricane in hand, his green cap bending under the weight of the light but constant snowfall, while Sam made his way to the armored command tent. The garage tent, with various ports and stalls filled with forest green Dubium L.T.'s, was an impressive sight. At the end of the garage, Sam could see two tents closed up and guarded by two men armed with rather bulky and unusual rifles, not quiet sizeable enough to be a machine gun, but borderline. Sam entered the tent, where Camion Sims, the Chief Engineer in charge of tank procurement and management, stood over a lamp lighted desk, studying papers, deep in thought.

"Sir, Sergeant Samuel Pike reporting for assignment sir!" Sam called.

"I believe, Mr. Pike, that upon graduation, you are a Field Sergeant, and no need to be so formal," Sims replied, still gazing at his papers. Sam, flustered about forgetting the lone flat bar connecting his chevrons, corrected his mistake and attempted to recover.

"Yes sir, Mr. Sims, sir," Sam replied, noting the warrant officer ranking Sims wore as a supply officer, and addressing him as mister respectively. "I'm here to meet my tank sir."

At this, Sims gave way to a small, half smile. "Meet your tank son? Don't you mean to _see_ your tank?"

Here it was Sam's turn to smile. "Sir, civilians and cadets see tanks, sir. Crewmen meet their tanks." Both men chuckled at the old adage, a slight sense of pride in what they did surfacing in what was typically a boring and cycling life at the snow covered camp. Sims rose, grabbed a key and a pair of plastic cards, and escorted Sam to the garage tent. To Sam's surprise, they passed all the Dubium models parked under the tents, and made their way to the enclosed pair. Sims handed Sam a plastic card, and they approached one of the guards. He checked the cards thoroughly, then ushered them into the tent. Inside, Sam gasped at the sight.

Within the tent was a tank much larger than the standard Dubium. It was about twice as long, at almost ten meters, with a large, flat turret near the front, slopped frontal armor, and a massive gun.

"Standing at just under nine feet tall, forty-six tons, a 122mm gun, a 580hp engine, two built in machine guns, and a top speed of forty-five kilometers per hour, you're looking at the new Hafnian line MBT, the new Lucerne Assault Tank. This tank out guns all but the Gallian Heavy Tank B in our combined arsenals, but as far as speed goes, she easily compares to a Medium variant. She's christened as "Assault Tank" because, with all the work we put into the engine, calling her "Heavy" didn't seem appropriate. Her suspension is a dream, and her mobility will make her an invaluable asset in the Ranger arsenal." Sims seemed giddy at sharing his secret, his voice swelling with pride as he listed the various details on the tank's design. The tank seemed highly agile, according to Sims, which seemed contradictory, given the tank's immense size. An armored Ragnite tank could be seen projecting from the rear.

"H-How is this possible? That thing is HUGE! How is the thing supposed to get to forty-five kilometers per hour? And another thing, why do the Rangers need a tank, despite its being superior? Do the Rangers just always get the high ends for Militia men?" Sam was gawking at the tank.

"Two brilliant minds actively working over an even more brilliant one's, that is to say, Mr. Gerald's meeting with Dr. Brondel helped. Gerald insisted the early models go to the Militia. The Valkyrurs know they'd be sitting in a locked up Army warehouse otherwise. The Empire has been itching for a fight recently, and the Ranger Corps has the most skilled men in our current force, but they still need armored support. They needed an exceptional tank that could keep up at high speeds on rough terrain, but at the same time, have that heavy-hitter juggernaut quality that surrounds the Corps. Obviously, the Dubium line wouldn't cut it, so we came up with the Lucerne line here. She's not as modular as the Gallian lines, but when a lady looks pretty, you don't ask her to change, and am I telling you, this one's beautiful," Sims finished, still glowing at the work of art he had toiled over in secret for so long. Sam could plainly see the tank was a line cracker, firepower an obvious intent. Two mean, large caliber machine guns, magazine fed, rested atop the tank's turret at odd angles, long, curved magazines at the ready on a crate nearby. Another barrel protruded the belly of this beautiful beast, but it didn't resemble a machine gun in the slightest. It was slightly longer, and there was no obvious attempt at an air-cooling system, the barrel as solid as the armor it protruded from. The main gun extended well beyond the front end of the tank, finely rifled, similar to a Valkyrian spiral, a little less than three meters long. Twin radio antennae could be seen extending from the turret's rear. At the back, massive air-cooling vents could be seen, and on the top rear, the "back" of the tank, was flat metal plating, easy enough to balance on.

"A ranger could easily stand on the rear end and man one of the two heavy machine guns," Sam thought privately, then aloud, "why is the hull gun so… weird?"

To this, Sims gave a nasty smile, "It's not a machine gun, that's why. What you are looking at is the FTA-P or Flame Tank Armament, Prototype. This thing doesn't compare to the dedicated flame tanks, but if you are staring down a heavily entrenched enemy, a quick burst or two should clear them out easily enough. The only downside to all this equipment is one previous necessity. We couldn't fit a mortar to the barrel, but with flames, heavy bullets, and a gun like that; I don't plan on giving any apologies."

The next day, Sam was given clearance to give the Lucerne a test run. Considering the tank was one of five in total, the tank took the name as its own; plans had been made for it to be a line model, like the Gallian standard T36. The tank series took the name Fabales, so Lucerne was officially the M1 FAT (002), or Model 1, Fabales Assault Tank. Upon receiving the paper work, Sims found himself despising the military bureaucracy for their stupid acronyms judging his work. Sam was up and ready early in the morning in his crewman uniform, a green combat shirt, cap, drab grey pants, and black line boots. He entered the tank along with Engineer Class 2 Tyler Boyd. Tyler was the ideal crewman, quick and precise, with few mistakes in his thus far brief career in the Militia. Sam was cautious at first, slowly gaining speed, moving around the valley and forest to get a feel for the tank. Slow-going as it was, Sam gradually began to challenge himself, climbing large inclines, rapid movement maneuvers, and even mowing down a patch of trees for camp eight's new tents to accommodate the recruits. By the end of the day, Sam had been zigzagging and plowing through the forest, set with his Lucerne. Over the next few days, Sam began practicing with the Eighth Rangers in maneuvers and combat scenarios, from moving the hulking behemoth as stealthily as possible through the forest, to infantry support. Sam and Tyler grew skilled with their weaponry, and the rangers became more familiar with their new familiar. One ranger, Sergeant First Class Quincy Hawkins, actually jumped on the back of the tank during a firing exercise and opened up with the Erma X2's onboard the turret. The target dummies were shredded into pieces. Hawkins was apparently a rebellion veteran. At forty eighty years of age, he had won over twenty battles, killed more than three hundred Imperials, and has fired over 150 Kilos of small-arms rounds. The stuff of legends, Hawkins was the second-in-command of the Eighth, under 1st Lieutenant Davis Fields. Lieutenant Fields was a EWII veteran and Gallian ex-patriot. His home destroyed in the invasion, he fell to wandering abroad, aiding people in need due to war, and Hafnia fit the bill. Unlike most Gallian heroes, he was not a militiaman, but a standard army shock trooper. His private armament was a Mags M30-R, with a longer, fine rifled barrel and a sturdier Kloden Beech wood stock, making it more viable in long range conflicts than the standard Mags series. He had acquired the model as a reward for his service by George Von Damon, after holding back several Imperial troops, where the currently disorganized militias had retreated at the first battle for Fouzen. Wounded in the right arm, he was awarded the Crimson Heart, along with the Mags model, with papers signed by Princess Cordeilia. Despite his Army service, he was liked by the Militia in that he wasn't a snobbish soldier, but a man of duty, like most Militia men.

The Eighth Rangers were gradually accustomed to the Lucerne as they fired at target dummies, the muffled "_whomp" _and the resounding explosion that followed became a comforting sound as the tank cannon fired. After three more weeks at camp eight, an order had come through. Reports of an Imperial patrol in force were scouring the hills and valleys along the border. Discretion was preferred, as there was no open conflict between Hafnia and the Empire, so Sam was told to grab a sniper rifle and meet up just inside the forest. At the forest, everyone dressed in green, was Sam, Hans, armed with a Gerald **A**-**10** rifle, Hawkins, Fields, and Cody. Hawkins was armed with a strange, tubular device that looked like a Lance in every way, except mitigated. "What is that?" Same inquired.

"This is a Halberd," Hawkins answered. "It's most obvious bonus is that it's a hell of a lot shorter than those massive Lances, but it also has the ability to fire a canister of pellets in a spray, provided the parts are hard to find and even harder to manufacture. It tends to be less accurate than the standard Lance, being shorter and all, and doesn't look as pretty without the paint job or the little ornate flaps, but it works just fine on the field. Fast and functional boys, that's how we work." With that, the fire team set off.

It was a good hour hiking through forest and hill sides when they spotted a crimson red Imperial Light Tank, its cannon and mortar set strait, with six Imperial infantry men behind it. Belching a blue-black haze from its radiator, the L-Tank was gradually cresting hill after hill, the infantry in two neat columns marching just behind, glancing into the forest often.

"Pike, I need you to identify those troops. Look at their weapons. What do you see?" This was the Lieutenant.

"I count four-no three scouts armed with ZM Karabiner 2's and an Engineer with a Model 1. There is also a Storm trooper with a ZMP 2 and a Sniper with a ZMF 2 bolt-action rifle," Sam replied. Sam could hear Fields repeating the description into a wireless field phone, the bulky pack sitting on Hans' back. There was a muffled female voice heard over the field phone, and the Lieutenant acknowledged. The Lieutenant began briefing us.

"The Imperial force is currently inside the Hafnian border, and it is against the peace agreement to have any armor in the Demilitarized Zone. Any Imperial tanks a quarter mile between our border and theirs are fair game, but since they have crossed _our border_, we've been ordered to engage. Pike, I want your first target to be that sniper. _Don't miss!_ After that, focus on the storm trooper, and whittle them down. Hawk, L-T, radiator, and then support as needed. York, suppressive fire. Keep their heads down while Pike opens up. Volden, you take pot shots and maybe lob a rifle grenade over as necessary. I want this over in two minutes." We all took our positions, while Sam readied his rifle. Hawkins was leaning against a tree, almost invisible. Fields just gave the order, "OPEN UP RANGERS!" Cody let loose with his Hurricane, while Sam popped the top off the Imperial sniper. Before the rest could react, Hawkins had blown the Light Tank with a perfect round to the radiator. The turret flew freely into the air after a bright flash and a sudden plume of smoke. The Engineer and one of the scouts were caught in the hail of gunfire Cody had laid down. The other scouts disappeared behind a hill crest, while the storm trooper dived behind the tank carcass. The scouts were gone for only a few moments before Hans fired his rifle grenade over the hill. The explosion sent the two scouts' bodies flying through the air. The storm trooper began firing from behind the tank, but Hurricane fire pinned him down. The stalemate lasted for a few minutes before Hawkins appeared in the tall grass next to the tank. Holding the Halberd at waist level, with a strange, bubble-like shell on the barrel, he ran behind the tank. The sound that followed was like the suddenness of a popping balloon, but hundreds of times louder. Just an instant "BOOM!" before a small grey cloud darted from behind the tank, the Imperial flying a few feet out of cover. Hawkins came out, the small bubble gone from the cone.

"Well that was mighty successful, wasn't it?"


	3. Chapter 2: Fallout

Chapter II: Fallout

The squad had just returned to Camp Eight. The camps were abuzz with conversation, scuttlebutt making its way from tent to tent. The camp's inhabitants seemed to stare at them with a fixation like they were spirits, returning from the grave instead of the battlefield. Two Guardsmen in Army Green and Gold uniforms stood at the command tent. One of them flagged down the lieutenant.

"Are you Lieutenant Fields?" The Guardsman asked. With his Mags M20 gripped tightly at his side, he was dark and stern looking, but he didn't seem overly proud or crude, just a rock solid veteran, the only kind that got into the King's Guards or the Field Guards.

"That I am Guardsman. Why do you need me?" Fields was just as solid, rising up to the display of the Guard's inquiry.

"I am to escort you to the Senior Command Tent. General Blake wishes to speak with you. Your Captain Hodgers will also be present." He then promptly turned towards the said tent, his component Guard moving in behind the squad. The Lieutenant followed, dismissing the squad. They walked off for the command tent, leaving the reconnaissance squad standing at the camp, confused and curious about the predicament. Eventually, the detachment went to their tents, stored their weapons and battle gear, and made their way to the hearth. There they began to discuss the events of the day, and as night fell, Hawkins made a fire to keep them warm. Eventually, Hans broached the question, "Why did the Guardsmen need the Lieutenant? What could a General possibly want to discuss with him?" This was the question of the hour. Why did the officers need to speak with the lieutenant? Did they do something wrong? Should they have held their fire? Numerous possibilities came up, and most of them took a turn for the worse. Captains and maybe majors congratulated lieutenants on a job well done, hell, even a colonel if it was important. But generals? Nothing good seemed to work out, and the squad began to worry for their commander. After hours of waiting, the lieutenant came out again, to meet them at the hearth. They all turned their eyes on him, but remained silent, knowing an explanation would come when one was ready. After several minutes more, Fields began to explain, "The patrol we encountered earlier today was a screening force. It seems the Empire wishes to reclaim this old spit of land once they heard our mountains were strong in Ragnite production. Despite the Federation's sudden mass production of armor, they just don't compare to the heavy weights the Empire is fielding. The Federation has turned to mobility, and disruption. They have been blasting ragnite sources across the Empire with deep cover agents, and a new tactic, "scorched earth," has gained popularity as they lose more and more land. By the time the Empire takes a game-field's stretch of land, it's an inhabitable crust of ash and dirt. Gallia was a first attempt to replenish their supplies, but now it looks like we have a new Drei Stern on our hands. The knowledge will be practically public in a few days. High Command feels it's in our best interest for a preemptive strike on their supply camps and forward operating bases or FOB's. They want to simultaneously annihilate three camps call-signs 'Barrel,' 'Jug,' and 'Canteen.' We take these out and their armor is essentially a stationary gun mount for the next few months. 'Jug' and 'Canteen' are both reasonably close to the border, but camp 'Barrel' is farther in Imperial territory. That's our mark. This will be Lucerne's first active combat role, so Pike; I need you rested and ready for duty in the next twenty-four hours. Same goes for all of you. The rest of the Eights will be briefed tomorrow morning. There will be heavy snow that day, so we have been issued Winter Battle Dress for the operation, and the Lucerne has already been painted appropriately. Rest well, and be ready for an intense fire fight tomorrow." With that, the detachment split, everyone going their separate ways to their own private tents. Sam went to check on Lucerne. Sims was kneeling under the armored skirts, covered in grease. Lucerne was now an off white color, with dabs of grey and pure white, along with ghostly hints of blue. She would obviously be ready the next day. Confident with Sims, Sam left to check on the squad. He was returning to his tent when he spotted a familiar face.

"Sarah?" She was kneeling by the hearth, a few others sheltering from the cold alongside her. The fire left a glowing orange tint to her face, her smile illuminated around the fire pit. She whipped her head around fast enough that it lashed out against a neighbor. She blushed slightly; begging forgiveness then ran to Sam. He continued, "What are you doing at camp Eight? I thought you were assigned to Squad Ten?"

"Squad Ten has been disbanded. The Captain said there had been 'recent developments' that required the support troopers to be folded in to the more active squads. They want us to help sooner, so they're putting us on the front lines. I'll be getting my own rifle by tomorrow." This last piece was said in a hushed tone, and the words were slurred as if she regretted the decision someone else had made for her. "I knew it would mostly be random, so I made a request to be transferred to Squad Eight. The Captain liked most of us, so she tried her best to fit our requests. I thought if I came here, I could do better to follow on that promise I made."

"That's…great! I'm glad you're with us Sarah. It's nice to have a familiar face here," Sam said. 'And it's also good that these Ranger types don't press like most of the rest,' this one thought privately. With the day closing, Sarah made off for her tent in one of the new lots Sam had mowed down just recently. Sam himself strolled for his own tent, determined to be ready for the coming engagement.

SQUAD EIGHT! DEPLOYMENT!" A crier could be heard through the camp. At the word, 'deployment,' the camp in its entirety arose, scrambling to ready for the day's conflict. The air was dry and cool, the snow crunching under the feet of the camp. Samuel ran to the garage, where Sims was waiting impatiently.

"This is your first run in combat, eh? It won't do to be late!"

"I _know_ that Sims! It wouldn't do to be out of order either." Sam hopped onto the tank's front and opened the driver's hatchway. Inside, Boyd was already making preparations. Of course, the ragnoline tanks were already filled, the ammunition stocks loaded, and the engine and other mechanics already warmed up. Sam was sitting in the driver's seat, awaiting clearance. Sims came and waved a green flag along with a golden one in a pattern, rehearsed and exercised with precision. Sam gradually slipped out of the tent, always on the lookout for one stupid stray soldier. When he pulled out of the tent, the camp was in a frenzy. Fifty-six men were milling about, gathering combat gear, receiving orders, and moving to positions. Squad Eight was divided into three detachments. The first, call sign _Dagger One_ was the largest, including the Lucerne, Lieutenant Fields, Sergeant Hawkins, and several other fire teams. _Dagger Two_ was a standard squad, two scouts, a sniper, three troopers, two lancers, and a couple of engineers, presumably carrying mortar shells for the Lancers. They were in support for the assault on FOB Jug, with _Dagger Three_, identical in composition, supporting the raid on Canteen. The twenty four men in _Dagger One_ were similar, but the composition was less fixed then the other two, with the remaining twelve as support teams, mostly former Tens, forming two medical teams of three medics and an engineer, and an entrenchment team of four combat engineers. The four officers, two second-lieutenants leading _Daggers Two _and _Three_, First-Lieutenant Fields, and Captain Hodgers respectively, brought Squad Eight evenly to sixty men. And every single one of them had orders to follow. After a good twenty minutes of sitting tight, Sam finally had a clear path to his fire team. At the edge of the forest, they waited for the snow storm to brew up. Here was a climate shock, the far side of the mountain being buried buy snow and ice, just minutes march from the other side, as dry as the rocky mountain ever was. Finally, Fields picked up the field phone, discussed a few points, and gave the orders to move out.

It was slow going. The snow was deep and bit harshly at the men. Many climbed aboard the Lucerne's flat back, worshiping the radiator vents as heat escaped from the tank's rear. The Lucerne was trudging through the barren frost, men scrunched together on the deck, turret, and front, with only a few on foot, and even then only in shifts. After five minutes of moving through the snow, the massive storage silos came into view, the lights shining against the snow in a blinding glare. "Just in time," Sam thought. Fields was already on the field phone as the men scattered into positions. Scouts had already gone on their way, either to the rear of the compound or deep into the front lines, hidden by the blanket of snow. The team engineers set up a small fallback position of sandbag bunkers, before moving up and making a sandbag and trench wall. The storm troopers gathered in the trenches along with heavy scouts, while snipers and lancers gathered just behind them, sheltering behind the sandbags. After an eternity, a whistle was blown, and all the lancers rose from the wall and fired. Five rockets flew across the snow in a blue storm of light before exploding against the walls and lines of the compound. Still flustered by the sudden fury of the barrage, the various guards were still recovering when the three snipers of _Dagger One_ opened up in a viciously accurate assault. Panicking now, Imperials either broke for inside the compound, or ran for their trenches. After a second barrage of Lancer rockets, the storm troopers, spearheaded by the Lucerne, plowed across the flat, snowy landscapes. As Imperials rose to intercept them, they exposed themselves to sniper fire. Lucerne opened up in a savage display of terror as her guns lit the compound's defensive line ablaze. The machine guns, manned by Hawkins and Hans, shredded any enemy in the open, while Sam skillfully maneuvered, offering a bout of flames when he could, leaving Boyd to fire the main gun as well as he could manage. The disarray was a frightening spectacle, and many Imperials began to retreat, but several Hafnian scouts already opened up with their rifles, leaving little for the storm troopers. What was left was taken prisoner soon after the base camp's flag unfurled in a green and gold banner, more scouts standing proudly in the camp. The massacre was total.

With the exception of the western wall, the compound had suffered minimal damage, and _Dagger One_, its objectives completed, began to revel in the spoils of heated buildings and Imperial rations. The prisoners are taken under armed guard by a military patrol, the most sizeable force the military could afford at the time, back to a prison camp in Hafnia. The field phone is never silent as reports of the success of other raids come in. _Daggers Two _and _Three_ are making their way to Barrel, with Jug and Canteen now firmly under Hafnian control, occupied by Squads Three and Five of the First Militia. The composition had changed. Now folding back into Squad Eight, the two fire teams now consisted of supporting roles with a few defensive precautions. _Dagger Two_ was now a light artillery team, with six Lancers/Mortar men, two Combat Engineers, a Scout, and a Gunner for defense. _Dagger Three_ had five Snipers, a Lancer, and then matched the rest of _Dagger Two_.

Once the other two supply depots were secure, Squads Three and Five swung around to make an even border with squad Eight, advancing into the Empire. Once set up, the support teams' Engineers began to fortify the line, with Barrel as the centerpiece. Trenches scarred the land, while sandbags offered cover, supported by earthen work bunkers and high-ground. Before the day's end, a veritable cliff had been constructed on this new border. Captain Hodgers called for the attendance of Squad Eight in an awards ceremony, supervised by Colonel Lile and General Blake. Squad Eight made itself ready and presentable, dressing in Army Class A's or AA's as it was commonly known. After a snow covered tank and an oily drab uniform, the AA's were a strange and uncomfortable feeling, but the sharp look was deemed acceptable for the temporary occasion. General Blake would, sadly, not be present. Scuttlebutt had it he was in the war room proposing a continued offensive after the day's successes. Colonel Lile was in charge at the moment. With the after action reports in hand, he made his request, then sent the Lieutenants, trailing their captains, to their respective barracks on site. After several hours of the procedure, Squad Eight was receiving their commendations. Lieutenant Fields made his way to the podium erected at the Eastern Wall, overlooking the shattered depot, before clearing his throat and opening in a formal speech, "Squad Eight of the First Militia. Today, you have done both the Ranger Corps, and Hafnia as a sovereign nation, proud in your heroic efforts today. Here, on this very station, we struck the first blow to the Imperial aggressors, and have emerged victorious. The shattered wall behind you is a symbol of your efforts, and a sign of events to come. The cowardly Empire, which dares to attempt to insult us so and steal our wealth, will writhe in pain akin to the day our friends and neighbors, the Gallians, shoved them out of their country those four years ago. I understand that several of you are fresh from our esteemed academy. You young Battering Rams have earned your title and served your nation honorably today. As such, Colonel Lile saw it fit to honor your valor toady. Will the following step forward: Tech Sergeant Callaway, Field Sergeant Pike, Corporal Mille, PFC Volden, and Private Gordon." The men, Sam included, all stepped up to a platform in front of the wall, Hawkins standing there with a jingling bag. The ecstasy was indescribable, the joy incomparable. "Our good Lord Ethos, ruler of Hafnia and elected house of our people, has found trust and capability in these men here, and in accordance to their outstanding abilities, have been given the following honors and ranks. Mr. Callaway, First Technical Sergeant. Mr. Pike, Command Field Sergeant, and The Order of the Blue Cavalry. Ms. Mile, The Green Cross. Mr. Vold-" and here he stopped short, the air suddenly resonating with a loud bang and then a stillness so sudden and in depth, that it was as if time itself had frozen in the storm. Everyone looked expectantly at Fields, only to see him crumple on the wall, his green dress stained an awful crimson. One of the Second Lieutenants called for a corpsman, whom latter called for the medical team. Scouts and Snipers dispersed to find the assailant.

After agonizing hours, word came the good Lieutenant was not dead. Still, his wounds were far to grave for active duty. He was dismissed from the frontlines, carried by an APC back to Hafnia, presumably to Cordolo, the closest city to the border. It was said after he recovered, he would be given an administration duty in the Militia at the Capitol, Astano. The sniper was not found, and presumed to have ran after his assassination attempt. The Militia men finally settled down from their ranting long enough to sleep, albeit, a troubled sleep. Fields had been a strong leader, and although Hawkins was a suitable replacement, it was a cold, strange feeling that gripped the hearts and minds of the men as they questioned the difference in worth between the loss of Fields and the gain of the depots.

The next morning, Hawkins approached Sam, presumably to discuss the fact that Sam was now the second in command given his rank. The twisted turn of events shocked him, "Hey kid. I know what you're thinking, and to put it bluntly, you are wrong. Congratulations, you are now in command of Squad Eight, First Militia."

"Wha-WHAT?" was the only reply Sam could utter.

"I am a reckless, gung-ho, Imp eating war-machine. I follow orders, and do damned well at them, but I am not fit for command, especially with the loss of Fields. I'd get us all killed. Hodgers heard me out, and agreed once he heard my side of the story. So it's official, _Lieutenant_." Hawkins gave a hapless grin at this conclusion, probably in an effort to offer solace. To Sam, however, it just felt like a sadistic joke had been played. "Look, kid. I CANNOT command this team. I have no knowledge of strategy or even tactics. I'm just a skilled soldier. So you, fresh out of a military academy, are the ideal choice, especially since you would have been the Executive Officer present. So we do a 'lil flip. You'll be the commander, and I am XO."

"Okay, okay. I just… I didn't expect to be hurled into a situation like this. I've been blasted from an engineer academy puke to a Lieutenant commanding a Ranger Squad, IN THE MIDDLE OF A WAR! I mean, I have par none experience. How am I supposed to lead these men?"

Hawkins thought this over for a second, but there weren't too many answers. "That, you'll have to find on your own. I'm sorry I can't be much help. There will be others with advice for you. Veterans and the other officers for sure, but to effectively command your men, you'll have to discover that on your own." After this, Hawkins grabbed his gear and walked off, supervising a squad of storm troops in drill.

"Find it on my own? How? How am I supposed to find that on my own? I…I don't like being alone. I need help on this…"


	4. Chapter 3: A New Begining

Chapter III: A New Beginning

It had been three months. Three terrible months since Fields had been shot. The Empire had just declared official war, after months of heated politics over the legitimacy of the attack. War HAD technically been declared. There was a longer than normal sheet of paper with a few lengthy demands, a not so brief declaration, and some fancy signatures that made it official. But the fact that it had not gone public; there was outcry in the Empire, particularly by the defender's families, that the attack was deceitful and evil, and demanded a rebuttal to the assault. Gallia maintained and armed neutrality, but exports to Hafnia had risen considerably, and at a discounted price that would create an imbalance in the network numbering in the billions, but the effects would be little, spread over a long term. Hafnia was a wealthy as ever, the Federation playing on the new sums of ragnite that would now be exported to their borders instead of the Empire. A trading post, one likely to profit immensely, was constructed in Roendahl Canyon. Fhirald, not needing a reason for conflict, shifted its imports to Gallia, which was in fact brought in from Hafnia, but less obvious was the duplicity of the mater. Speeches were made public, and it was apparent that the Federation supported Hafnia in its conflict with the Empire. Industries would be expanding into Hafnia, the factories a dire need for the war effort. The Third Imperial Battle Group, consisting of the Fifth, Ninth, and Twenty-Second Shock Armies, took the name "Drei Angst," a foreboding reminiscence to the infamous Drei Stern present. The earthen wall at the supply bases became one massive base, housing the First Militia on the field as "Fort Bail" or, more common among it's dissatisfied occupants, 'the Mud Hut.'

Life in the Hut was relatively slow, albeit there was always fear of an Imperial attack. A sort of edginess was constant, prolonged by a lack of activity. That is, until a shipment came to Fort Bail. By the end of the third month, there had been no real conflict. A few skirmishes, with minimal casualties, but nothing note worthy. But in the middle of the night, on the third week of the third month, a convoy of trucks arrived, covered in tarp, wooden crates protruding from the rear. All lieutenants were called to the command bunker, a concrete structure in the middle of camp, deceiving in that barely a quarter showed, as staircases took root deep into the man-made plateau. In one of the briefing rooms, Captain Hodgers addressed the gathered officers of the Eighth Rangers.

"Last night, a shipment of Gallian weaponry, long in the making, now possible with Federal funding, has arrived for field testing here on the north-eastern front. The Brondel Auto series has finally arrived. The AR series of Brondel weaponry was long considered possible, when Professor Theimer sponsored his own Mags series; the long barrel and extensive magazine showed that an accurate, long-range, full auto weapon was possible. The appropriate funds for utilizing Theimer's designs have been paid to next of kin, strangely, retired Lieutenant Gunther. The AR-1's will be given to your respective platoons, to be divided as you see fit. The magazines, twenty-five rounds each, are heavy rounds that will cause extensive damage to light targets, including light armor, if equipped with appropriate ammunition. Also in the shipment were Ragnoleium shells for both Lancers and Armored units. A chemical agent super heats the Ragnoleium like the jelly from a flamethrower. It's an experimental alternative for Anti-Armor units. These SH rounds have been designed to clear fortifications at long distances and melt armor on thinly plated vehicles or building weak spots. We've been told more shipments of growing… peculiarity… will be arriving to help us defend the border. I'll take questions tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen." So the officers were dismissed. Sam already knew of an ideal combat veteran who would make ideal use of the accuracy and auto-capability afforded by these new weapons. Although he disliked him slightly for shoving him into this command position so early in his carrier, Sam knew Sergeant Hawkins was a reckless, field combat trooper, and he somewhat understood the sense behind his predicament. Hawkins was likely to get shot someday or other, at least shot badly enough to be pulled off the field. So Sam mentally reserved one of the new rifles for his second in command, and began a mental list of the rifle's first users. These new HR rounds however, the heated ragnoleium, would open some new doors. He said building weak spots were possible targets, so flanking missions should prove much more interesting. Rumors gave that the heating chemicals gave the ragnoleium a fiery red color, in total contrast to the blue that has been so associated with any ragnite base. Something else to look forward to. The camp was ecstatic. The shipment had also brought in newer models of standard weaponry, and the snipers in particular were proud of the Gerald **SR** Mk. I's they had received. The wooden rifle looked all the part, the body a darker brown, a forest green barrel cooler, and a low-shine brass scope, made it the epitome of the national armory. The Squads all had access to a variety of weaponry, with Federal weapons available for a hefty price, their Gallian counterparts mass-producible, but nothing overly special, and even a few Imperial specialties that 'fell off the truck' from Fhirald. The Gerald series was a healthy balance of accuracy, stopping power, and mobility, but in some cases, a squad needed to veer off the fair and balanced to achieve a goal. Overall, the camp's moral was very high, with success continuous and new toys to ensure the trend.

Sitting by himself on a bench, on the outskirts of camp, Sam sat pondering his position. One of the many militia soldiers came to join Sam, a shock trooper by the name of Ulan. He evidently had no last name, due to his hair color, until recently. The man was a Darcsen, plain and simple, but prejudices were strangely lax here, despite recent heritage to the callousness of the Empire. If anything, he went without a last name for a while simply because neither of his parents had one, and was simply known as Ulan. Many, however, were coming up with new ones, typically based on their occupation, similar to most last names. New families of Miner's, Smith's, and Prof's were being made daily in Europa, even in the Empire, where the need for mass labor led to the decaying of restrictions on the ancient people. Ulan had plans on taking the name "Shockley," as homage to his work of five years. Ulan Shockley was a proud Darcsen, with a sense of duty to those he cared about. He didn't seem overly zealous in the quest for equality that had engrossed so many Darcsens in the armed forces, but rather seemed neutral on the matter, avoiding trouble and performing well at his role. That's not to say the man was impassive. Ulan was very protective of those closest to him, and although he rarely took personal insults, he would not stand for the same against his friends.

"The squad is pretty excited over their new weaponry, Lieutenant. After our success a few months ago, most of us are rather anxious to get on the field again, especially after Fields left. Any word from the hierarchy of command?" It was obvious that Shockley was ready to get into combat again. Fields was a honest man, and Shockley had grown close to him and respected him deeply as an officer and a friend.

"I truly don't know, Ulan. We have been out of it for a while, but I think this shipment is a good sign. No use passing out toys if you can't play with them, you know? Just makes them more anxious. I'm fairly certain we'll be moving out soon."

"This is your first go of command, our next Op I mean. Do you think you can get through?" This caused Sam to pause and take a deep breath before answering.

"I think I've got a hold on it. I'm no Fields, but I'm learning, and Hawkins is a decent teacher. I'd like to think I can get Eight through anything, but… I'm scared Ulan, I really am. If I make one mistake out there, just_ one_ mistake on the battlefield, people will die. _Die._ People I care about, squad mates I've grown close to, come to call my family. How can I go out there and direct them with _that _on my shoulders? How do I know they'll come back alive?" The questions had in fact been welling up deep in Sam's core, a fear of his responsibility, a doubt in his capability that left him questioning his reliability as an officer. Several times, he had written a letter of resignation from his office, but that same worry left that letter in the waste-bin each time. "I'm always wondering if I was the right choice; that a green like me should be in charge because I knew the names of generals long turned corpses. That I have a slip of paper that says I know who won what battle for the past fifty years. Can an education in anything, academy or not, really save these men, Ulan? Am I the right choice to lead these men?" The worry was a heartache now, a throbbing, burning fear and passion that could only be found with brothers in arms. Ulan had been listening intently, gazing knowledgably as Sam poured out to him like a confessional, before answering after a long, still pause.

"You are. You genuinely care for these men. You truly want to lead them home safely. War is a nasty business, Lieutenant Pike, and I know you're going to feel a pain I'll hopefully never experience, but you have the desire to get us home, and that's more than enough to earn my respect, and my machine gun." A brief pause, it was dark now, the fires crackling and cackling in the distance, a soft breeze flying up the slope, carrying the familiar scent of the pine trees from back home, under the mountain, to them. "You'll get us through this, Pike, and I'll be there to watch you do it, I know it." Sam thought about this for a moment, and was slightly comforted at the faith Ulan had just placed in him, before the shock trooper got up, gathered his gear, and dismissed himself to his tent. This last piece took a few minutes to finally absorb.

"_You'll get us through this, Pike, and I'll be there to watch you do it, I know it."_

It hung in the air for a moment, just floated around in Sam's head as he thought of what Ulan had just told him. The trooper hadn't just accepted Sam, he had placed his faith in him. "The faith of a storm trooper…" Sam thought. "One of many, but comforting nonetheless." With this final thought set in his mind, Sam arose, and turned for the camp, ready to get to sleep, and bury all the issues the day had heaped on him, if only for a while.

"SQUAD EIGHT! ORDERS!" The message was clear as the crier, his voice muffled by the new loudspeaker, made it perfectly known that the squad was needed. The whole squad awoke, dressed in combat fatigues, grabbed a few snack items, their combat gear, equipment packs, before congregating in the camp center, the officers meeting in the command bunker. Captain Hodgers entered the room, and all the officers stood at attention.

"At Ease." The men relaxed and sat down at their respective chairs around a briefing table. "The Empire is making an aggressive offense along the Hafnian border. Defensive emplacements have been readied to meet them, but our numbers will not stand against the onslaught. A professional military regiment will be taking over the camp. Our supplies will follow us to our new camp at Denigan Wood. The camp will be erected and waiting force us upon our return. The forward regiments of the Imperial Twenty-Second Shock Army, the 'First Fear' so to speak, has engaged the Second Militia Squad at their entrenched positions at the plains of Bedouin. We will be moving in to support the defending squad by engaging the regiment's rear guard, forcing them into a pincer movement. Operation _Hammer_ begins in three hours, so we need to move double-time. Good luck gentlemen, and I pray to the Valkyrur you will all return."

The Captain seemed genuinely concerned for the men. The Drei Angst or "Three Fears" were a nightmarish horde of EWI and II veterans, genuinely a robust fighting unit that excelled in all forms of Imperial warfare and doctrine. Their weaponry was in itself standard, with the exception of the ninth shock army, which was known for more experimental solutions, but nothing as crazed as the V2's that had terrorized Gallia two years in the past. The Rangers were well equipped, but numbers were numbers, and when Hafnia went toe to toe with the Empire, they were going to lose, no matter how many rounds could be fired. The hordes would clog their guns with the waves of their comrades it would seem.

There were many new things Sam had learned over the past few days, Camp Barrel now a good few days behind them. New orders could be given as he worked with his men, learning their skills and specialties. _Dagger-Two_ was one of the Squad's support teams, and was particularly skilled with heavy weapons, such as lances and mortars. This made them ideal mortar support. A quick rally on the wireless radio, and a grid-specific section of the combat map would be in a shower of mortar rounds, which was especially useful against heavily entrenched camps and bunkers. _Dagger-Three_ was more precise and therefore made ideal sniper support, with an expert marksman always standing by, a radio-wielding observer listening intently. Intensive training, however, had allowed Sam to improve on these specialties. For example, along the various skirmishes and encounters, Sam had begun to utilize _Dagger-Three_ as a reconnaissance team, their long range scopes and binoculars ideal for scouting positions typically dangerous for men on the field. _Dagger-Two_ had gradually incorporated Gunners into their team, and as the brutish squad lumbered around, it didn't take long for anywhere from a lone gunman to a small army to lay an impressive amount of ammunition on a specific group of targets, generally pining them down, if not mauling them. The only real problem was that the support teams were just that, support teams, and as such had to be trained separately, albeit on their own time, the primary squad unaffected.

It took about five days of forced-march to reach the Bedouin plain. Trenches marked the earth like twisted gashes from a thorn bush, connecting occasionally, flashes of blue or gold light and occasionally flames spouting in the distance, like some sick, demented fountain from hell, the skies red from all the dust, rust, and material blasted into the air. The whole plain was a nightmare, and it was their new office for the next couple of days. The Squad rapidly made for cover, coveting the element of surprise as a lifeline from the onslaught. Hawkins, toting the new Auto-Rifle, gave a brief summary on the scout's reports, "A column of Utility APC's and cargo trucks are ferrying supplies to the front line troops. Rear-echelon seems pretty lax, so it may be good. On the other hand, if we screw around, they know we're here, and we can't get to our own lines, so it's belly-up for Squad Eight. We'd have to act fast though. The enemy's front line has some serious firepower, and if they turn that on us, we'd be better off hiding in one of their bunkers, praying some oblivious storm trooper doesn't burn us out." With that comforting bit of speech, Hawkins made sure gear was distributed, and the teams ready at a moment's notice. Sam gazed intently on the hell in front of him, seeing the enemy and what they truly did to his countrymen. The Green-and-Gold was still flying proudly over the base-camp, but the smoke trails and tank carcasses showed that holding the position was becoming an increasingly futile task. He removed his battle map of the area from his belt and called in the other lieutenants and Hawkins.

"Alright, here's the plan. _Daggers-Two-Three_ will both make their way to our own lines, under cover of our assault on their supplies. The moment they look over their shoulders, run like hell. Once you're in position, I'll need fire support, so you need to be ready to open up on them and listen to your wireless. Help the other Squads when you can, limitations zero. You have FULL access and responsibility for that base-camp, understood?" The two second-lieutenants nodded, alerted their men to make ready, and returned their gaze to the briefing. "Dagger_-One_ will be targeting supplies and possibly flanking the front lines. Our priority is supply-dumps, trucks, and the thinner APC's. We have to make use of our time effectively, so heavy-weights take a backseat. I don't want any casualties on this, so speed is _essential_. Good luck Eight, let's move it."

The teams made ready behind the ridge that had sheltered them for the past few hours. Team One was obviously the more nervous of the two, and prayers could be heard, with the more devoted kissing necklaces of a spiraling disc on a ridged cord. Sam made ready on the Lucerne, his final checks complete. "Ready Eights? NOW!" The first team spilled out, a veritable wall of tracers splattering the vehicles and the troops beside them, riddling the earlier with holes, splattering the latter over the first. A ragnoline tank exploded, which detonated the store in the truck. A few lucky rounds set off a reaction that detonated three supply trucks and killed four Imperials. The battle was growing intense as the Empire began to return fire. The front lines also turned, but most were out of range at the time. At this point, _Dagger-Three_ had selected a priority In the battle line for each marksmen, and within seconds of the first shot, the enemy line's nearer flank collapsed as a deadly storm of high-power rifle rounds expertly found their marks. The moment it was clear, the marksmen team sprinted off to Hafnian lines, interception fire at a minimum. As a parting gift, just before they left, _Dagger-Two_ unleashed a barrage of the new Super-Heated Lancer shells on the armor near rear-echelon. A staggered line of fiery red stars flew across the field before exploding in a liquid flame that melted away the armor and engulfed the area around it in a terrifying fireball. _Dagger-Two_ was making its way to the line now, covered by the marksmanship of _Dagger-Three_. The first problem now over, Sam began personal conflict on the field, supervising his men as necessary. Hawkins was a demon with the new AR-1. A rapid set of heavy-rounds could go flying clear through a truck, tearing up the mass of men cowering behind, the rifle-grenades almost unneeded. The Lucerne was even more terrifying, the mottled grey, complimenting a recent shade of dark brown, accentuated the presence of the tank. Every shot fired from its massive gun reverberated across the field, heard over the comparative din of small arms fire. Blue flames erupted from the trucks and depots, golden-orange ones from the APCs, and the Imperials began to crumble. But somehow, the resistance was more than expected. The enemy was rallying to one officer in particular, his decorations shining in contrast to his dark, menacing red uniform, purposely stained with the mud of the plain, marking him as a clearly experienced opponent. Sam took aim from the gunner's quadrant, leaving Boyd to handle the steering. A near perfect shot, he gave the order.

"FIRE!"

The barrel exploded briefly in flame, the ears of those nearby ringing in protest, as the Ragnite shell exploded across the plain. But this man did something unexpected. He dived to the side, behind a barely large enough boulder, out of view from him and his men. He gave a few burst of gunfire in reply, wounding one of the Hafnian scouts. The man kept his shelter, and all of the storm troopers who tried to approach him were pinned down, searching madly for shelter. As the battle continued, the officer held his ground, even as the battle was clearly lost. Finally, Sam pulled up the FM wireless, "I need mortar support fire, bring down the rain!" With that, bright blue arcs flew from the Hafnian trenches and glided over the dimming sky, piercing the awful red smog. The barrage was total, the boulder exploded into pieces, and a red-brown Imperial helmet flew out in front of the Lucerne, a black cross emblazoned on its side.


	5. Chapter 4: After the Battle

Chapter IV: After the Battle

"Perfect shot there _Dagger-Two_!" The storm troopers were up and moving to new, more advantageous cover. Imperial troops, realizing their supply line had been crushed, turned to fight their way out. What few troops the Squad had compared to the Imperial troops made for any solid cover they could find, including Lucerne, before showering the advancing enemy in a hail of tracers, flying across the killing field like flurries of flame, gliding through their enemies with an ease seemingly unfair, inhuman. Imperial troops began to fire back, a few pathetic tracers returning before burrowing into the rocks with a sharp _crack_ and a puff of dust. That was when the defending army advanced. Their scouts, naturally, made their way to the Imperial trench, firing into their backs. Their comrades came to join them, with heavier, more deadly equipment moving to crush the opposition between this deadly pincer, this anvil and hammer. After sustaining a few casualties, those few who survived quickly surrendered to the Hafnians, laying down their arms and cautiously walking out from cover. The Second Militia Squad took the prisoners back, deeper into Hafnian territory, leaving Squad Eight to hold the line and clear the field. The first, and most unpleasant duty, was to clear the battlefield of the dead. Mounds of corpses, aside from lowering moral and causing disease, blocked lines of sight and firing arcs. This made it an essential, if not disturbing, task that needed to be done when holding a position. Engineers and medics, more used to the unanimated, moved in orderly droves, scouring the plain for those condemned to never see the outcome of the war. A few regular troops made to help them, but Sam cautioned them otherwise, knowing the fragile mentality of a combat soldier. Most heeded the warning, but there were a few who took it upon themselves to finish this grim and grisly task. Hawkins was one of them. He laid his AR against his cot, one of the few left behind by Squad Two, one of them saying it was no longer needed. He walked out onto the plain. Hours passed by, the job gradually finishing, the troops' peace of mind returning. A few hours more had passed, with most of the Engineers returning to the camp, a grim expression, their uniforms stained with blood. Hawkins had not returned. A few commented, but did not pay much attention, but Sam heard. He had noticed the determined, almost defiant look Hawkins had at the start of the gruesome task. Grabbing a standard rifle, the lieutenant made his way onto the plain.

The field was still a mess. Most of the bodies were gone, but tank carcasses, blackened and charred, were scattered about. Nit-picking his way through the armored graveyard, Sam began to search. Many of the carcasses still burned, and the heat from the burning fuel was showering Sam with sweat, when he heard something; a faint whisper, carried by the breeze, barely audible over the crackling and roaring fires. The source of the sound wasn't hard to locate, but Sam still moved slowly, cautiously checking for survivors. He eventually saw something that he did not know what to make of at the moment. First curiosity glanced a blow at him, before he went cold with a fear not normal on the battlefield, a wave of embarrassment and sorrow overlapping him at the sight. He continued to watch though, he watched the whole affair; Sergeant Hawkins was huddled against an Imperial tank, curled up in a way not natural to men of his age or demeanor. Legs pulled up to his chest, he cradled a photo. The black and white square was smeared with crumbling dirt, a mark from burning, and just a hint of blood, now dry and a crusty brown. In his hand, held tightly against the photo, was a necklace. A charm actually, a spiraling disc popular among soldiers, thought to bring the protection of the Valkyrur of old. It too had blood on it. By now, Sam could hear it. Crying, no- sobbing. Hawkins was sobbing, great breaths forced out as he choked and gagged at the sight before him. His face, covered in grime, had two glistening pathways from his eyes down, and he shuddered with each great gasp and tear. He was a shadow of the soldier most knew him to be, this veteran, this great soldier, had been broken. In front of him was one Imperial the Engineers missed, or maybe left behind, seeing Hawkins there.

His helmet was off, the vast cauldron that had inadvertently protected many of the Gallians and Hafnians of the older wars. War became personal, when you could see their faces. Many could not shoot someone without some sort of facial cover. Men were cowards, unable to kill, when knowing plainly that _this_ was a human being. That so many could easily pull the trigger, so long as they could blot out the event from the memories. It was all too common in fact, to just haze, then to gradually blur, and eventually, one forgot these parts all together. Years from now, men would gather in a pub or bar, and exchange stories of the good days. They would discuss telling their young ones heroic stories of battle, and the family they missed in their squad, how happy they were to see each other. Eventually, the talk would drift to a more drunk or reminiscent member, who would recall someone who had died. They would toast to him, this lost friend. A brief tear, followed by a large drink and with this drink would wash away the memory again. But it was much harder when you saw their faces. Too hard, in fact. When you could see the father's eyes, the mother's nose, you questioned yourself.

The soldier was young, how young was hard to tell. His face was by now a concrete gray, the life drained from him. His eyes were glassy and glazed over, his blonde hair ruffled almost affectionately by Hawkins. It was painful to just watch him, to gaze in shame while this sobbing man broke down, but Sam could not stop. Wave upon wave of images scarred his memory, burned his mind, as he lost hope watching this war hero shudder and quake. Hawkins continued this horrendous sight, unperturbed, for some time; stroking the boy's hair, holding the lifeless hand up, replacing the charm around the soldier's neck before muttering a prayer to the Valkyrur.

Half an hour flew by, unnoticed, before Hawkins surprised the lieutenant even more. After so long of the depression, such a period of grief, something unexpected happened: he sniffled a little bit, wiped his face with a rag, and got up. Seemingly as impartial as brushing dust off his uniform, he stood, grabbed his gear, lifted the body and began to return to the camp. Now looking towards him, Hawkins noticed Sam, hiding behind the tank.

"Hey kid. Come looking for me did you?" His voice still seemed heavy, slurred by the raw emotion that had made such a savage display only moments earlier. "Sorry I took so long. An old soldier's business, y'know?" Here, Sam was taken aback. This was no 'soldier's business' as far as he could tell. They walked in silence for a few minutes, making their way to the camp. A few minutes out, Hawkins stopped. He stared forward for a little bit, towering over Sam, before speaking, "What you saw back there," he began. Sam felt the urge to say something, anything to smooth over the subject, but such words did not exist, so he remained quiet. "I-, every soldier, after so much combat, thinks about what he's done. I've personally wondered how many people I've sent to the Eternal. One day, while these wars continue to burn Europa, you will feel this pain. I pray you won't, but I guarantee you, every real veteran does this form time to time. You can't live in this job, can't keep killing, without breaking down sometime or other. Fields did it, I do it, you will to one day. The famed war heroes you hear about, the Valkyrur, the true story of the Darcsens, hell, probably the Gunther family. They've all likely broken one time or other. It's what makes us human, what we are." He paused here for a moment, another tear appearing under his right eye. "One day, somebody will have the sense to stop this madness. One day, there will be no more tears. I suspect, however, that neither I nor you or your children will see that day. So we fight, and we strive to shape this world in the way for our grand-children to enjoy that hopeful dream, that eternal peace." That was the apparent end to the conversation. Hawkins turned off to place the body with the others, where they would wait until they could be repatriated.  
Squad Two had returned. The Imperials were apparently safely locked away in a professional army prison camp. Those lucky troops would spend the whole war sitting in their beds, fed and guarded, awaiting an end that could be years coming. Fortifications were rebuilt, the bolstered, combined effort corps of Engineers making good time. Mine fields were laid, and fall-back positions erected in record time, between the two squads. By the time Squad Eight was needed to fall back, the Bedouin plain had been locked down, firmly in the grasp of the Hafnian armed forces. They were being deployed to the Denigan Wood. The trees there were broad and thick, ideal cover against even heavy weaponry. And the forestry, the wonderful forestry. Rangers excelled in wooded areas. Although the concept could be used to match other terrain, camouflage had been designed for forests. There were other reasons, of course. Rangers, with their extensive training, could use the forests to…supplement… their diets, among other camp needs. The plain seemed less hellish, the dirt-based fog settling, the fires more or less put out, and the bodies and most tank carcasses gone now. A single dirt road, more designed to accommodate herders and their grazing livestock, was the sole pathway to the forest, and although it was designed masterfully for combat and terrain, that still meant scrubbing away at Lucerne, a task Sam did not enjoy. At any rate, Bedouin was gradually separated from them, the road continuing for quite a few miles. They eventually reached the forest, its famed Hagan-wood trees growing to massive heights and widths, covering the area in a dark green, with only the wood's deep, darkened complexion to contrast.

"These are the trees Gerald Arms typically uses for its heavy weaponry. Hagan wood is known for its sturdiness, more so than Kloden dark-wood. They store unusually high amounts of air, trapped in the fibers. This makes them ideal shock-absorbers, as well as excellent fire wood." Hawkins, as ever, was the ultimate guide. It seemed strange to Sam, how easily he could get over his emotions, how simple he made it seem to go from a broken man to a man's man. He seemed perfectly healthy, mentally and physically, totally unscarred. Ranger Camp Eight was waiting for them in a clearing. The maze of green tents never seemed so homely, the hearths so inviting. Many found themselves a home, dropped their gear, and nodding off. Engineers were milling about; inspecting their lost men's healed wounds, making their found charges comfortable. Among them was Sarah, handing out hot rations, and smiling contentedly.

"Hey Sarah!" Sam called out. She looked up, caught a little off guard, but smiled soon again. She quickly grabbed a couple bowls, filled them to the brim with a red-brown stew, and walked over. The smell reached him long before her words did. Several days more of forced march, almost immediately after a battle, was exhausting. It didn't help that army rations were typically hard bread with some coffee, a slice of ham or 'mystery meat,' and whatever you could scavenge to accompany it.

"Sam! Great to see you again, are you hungry?" Sarah handed him one of the bowls and a small wood spoon. Famished, he was tempted to devour the meal in one unseemly gulp, but refrained himself. Sarah seemed genuinely happy at his return, and he felt he had to ask something. Before he could begin though, she started off with a question of her own, "Where's Hans?"

"Hmmm? He should be here, but I don't see him." Sam began to look around, but the sea of milling faces confounded his efforts. Of course, it didn't take long for him to appear on his own accord. Carrying a veritable pot of stew, chatting with Cody York, he saw them.

"Don't tell me you've started eating without us? I turn my back for one moment to get some stew, and you're off telling of your brave exploits; without my heroic presence, no doubt?"

The four gathered around their own hearth, swapping stories of sorties. Battles, recons, treatment, and other military doings, never seemed to end in time of war, so neither did the stories. Cody had found a better belt feed for his Hurricane from an Imperial gunner, whereas Hans had played a vital role in the routing of Imperial reinforcements (which, despite their being none, caught the attention of Sarah rather easily). Sam never called him on it, but rather boasted the superior abilities of the now cherished Lucerne. Sims, stationed in camp, had done beautiful work on her. She now had armored skirts, to lessen the chance of any Imp explosives getting a 'peak at her underside' as Sims put it. Sam also listened intently, along with the other boys, as Sarah recalled various points and trials as an Engineer. There were far too many wounded, and to little supplies. Barrel would soon be repaired, offering a steadier supply, but in the meantime, they had to make do with scarves, socks, and other makeshift tourniquets. The talk floated around the fire, like a leaf caught in the draft, roaming between the smiling faces and their imaginative minds, before slowing down into a sleepy slur. When the fires died, the quartet retired to their respective tents, eager for a deep sleep, with no forced march to look forward to. Sleep embraced Sam after a long day of work, followed by a hearty meal and scuttlebutt among friends. The slumber overtook him nearly the moment he rested his head, but the night still held trials for Lieutenant Pike.

His mind opened up to the boy Hawkins had been holding. He seemed as dead as ever, but rather quickly, he grew to life again. His face colored, a pale pink-peach hue, with red cheeks and emotion filling every pore of his being. His smile would have shocked many Imperial women for sure, the dazzling white rows emitting a warmth of their own. His eyes shined in their bright blue-green, full of passion and pride. There was no dried blood to taint his blond hair, spiked and short-cut. The boy seemed ideally friendly, a kind soul whom you would like to have at your back. Imperial fatigues were replaced with normal clothing, blue jeans, a white, puffy shirt excellent for summer work. In the background was not a battle, no field of death, but a homestead. A stone building, smoke rising from the chimney, seemed marvelously inviting. A man and woman could be seen, holding each other proudly as their son walked away. In his right hand was a folder, a sheaf of papers with the Imperial crest emblazoned on its side. Two Imperial soldiers walked on either side of him, generic, smiling faces unconcealed by the helmets normal to their ranks. Sam saw all this in his mind's eye, this pleasant dream with a known, dreadful outcome, but the worst had not yet come.

The three strolled to what must have been the town square, a fountain gushing beautiful, clear water, crowds buying from vendors, families smiling as sons departed for a war to reclaim their own. There were many hugs, kisses, and a few tears as women embraced their loved ones. The boy was among one of those lucky men, a gorgeous young girl with shocking orange hair gripped his neck tightly. A lone, fat tear fell from her chin, but she smiled through it, determined to leave him with a happy memory. All this wrenched at Sam as he watched, an unnoticed spirit gazing on a memory he had no right to intrude upon, but no choice otherwise. The boy, with several others, climbed aboard a truck, no doubt taking them to some training camp. As he extended his hand to climb aboard, Sam saw one last detail, one final glimpse, the shock of which sent him flailing from his bed in a cold sweat. On the boy's left hand, secured firmly at the base of the finger, was a simple gold band.


End file.
